


Etchings

by TeaRoses



Category: Silent Hill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRoses/pseuds/TeaRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Frank really wanted was a drink.  All Cynthia really wanted was some company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Etchings

**Author's Note:**

> Cynthia Velasquez never had an apartment in South Ashfield Heights, or we would presumably know that from canon. This is part of the reason for the AU label. Also I have taken some liberties with the objects present in Frank’s apartment, as Henry doesn’t find a picture of James and Mary.

Frank Sunderland stared at his reflection in the mirror. “When was the last time you left this building?” he asked himself. It couldn’t have been that long, really. He had to go out for groceries, and to the plumbing supply place. But it seemed like forever.

“You should go out for a drink or something,” he said, this time not speaking out loud. “It’s ridiculous staying cooped up in here all the time. You’ll drive yourself crazy. You’re already starting to talk to yourself.”

The sad part was how often he had this conversation. And in the end it was always the same. “No, don’t bother; there’s a dinner in the freezer and you can always watch television.” Tonight was going to be the same, he was certain. And maybe it didn’t matter.

Then he saw the calendar out of the corner of his eye. It was his birthday. He hardly paid attention to anything like that at his age, but it suddenly struck his as a good excuse to put on a decent sweater and walk over to the Southfield Bar.

Even though the bar was so close to the building he didn’t go there often. He didn’t drink so much these days, and he didn’t know many people in the neighborhood except here in the building. But it was a decent enough place, and he wasn’t going there to socialize anyway. All he wanted was to have a drink that would technically not be alone, and to look at someone else’s wall for once.

When he got there he was surprised to see it was crowded. There were men playing pool and a few couples sitting at tables. Frank sat down at the bar, which was also nearly full, next to a man in a business suit. When the bartender asked him what he wanted, he had to think for a moment, and then decided on bourbon and water.

He didn’t expect to see anyone he knew there, and at first he didn’t. Then he noticed a woman at the other end of the bar. She had a pretty face and long hair pinned up in the back. Her reddish blouse was so low-cut that even from where he sat he had a good view of her breasts, but he tried not to stare at her chest; he still had some manners. He did know her from somewhere, he was pretty certain of that. But it would look pretty bad if he walked over and said something like that to a girl in a bar, so he just drank his bourbon and tried not to look at her.

A moment later he heard a voice behind him. “Frank Sunderland, right?”

He turned. There she stood, and now he could see her long legs under the short striped skirt. She was beautiful, but somehow he had still forgotten who she was. He really was getting old.

“I’m sorry, miss—“

“Cynthia. Cynthia Velasquez. I used to live in your building.”

“Oh! I just didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been quite a while.” It had been a long time; she had been younger when she lived in the building and she looked a little different now. She used to always wear her hair down, for one thing. But he was telling the truth; he hadn’t forgotten her after all. She was one of the prettiest women who had ever lived there, actually. At Frank’s age he had pretended not to notice, but he had once seen that noisy guy, Richard, nearly run into a wall trying to walk and stare at Cynthia at the same time.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ve been all right. Doing my writing, mostly. And a little night life, now and then.” She smiled.

“You write?” he asked.

“You never knew I was a writer? I was just starting back then. I’m just starting now, really.”

“I guess I didn’t,” Frank answered. She had worked in an office when she lived in South Ashfield Heights, as Frank remembered it.

“Well, it’s not my full-time job,” she admitted. 

People were jostling past Cynthia to get to the bar, most giving her a few appreciative looks on the way. 

“Say, I’m sorry… It looks like someone took your seat while you were standing here,” he said.

“We could get a table,” she suggested.

Frank wasn’t certain why she wanted to continue the conversation, but he didn’t want to say no. They found an unoccupied table and ordered another round of drinks. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat down and had a drink with a woman, or with anyone.

“You were always so helpful to us when we lived in South Ashfield Heights. Even when we used to get locked out in the middle of the night.”

Frank laughed. “You two weren’t so bad about that as I remember it. At least you apologized. The management company told me I was supposed to charge everyone who made me open the door for them, but I didn’t have the heart to.”

“Do you come here a lot?” she asked. “I’m not here that much; it’s such a quiet place. I mostly go for music and dancing.” 

Frank remembered that, too.

“But I’ve never seen you here at all,” she continued.

“Oh, no. I haven’t been here in a long time. I just decided to go have a drink since it was my birthday.”

“Really? How old – well, never mind that.” She winked. “Happy Birthday! Now I can buy you a drink.” 

Frank was pretty sure he was supposed to pay for the drinks, but he decided to worry about that later. “Do you still have your same roommate? Maura, I think it was?”

“No, she got married years ago.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No, I’m not the marrying type.” She said it with a little smile that Frank would be tempted to take as flirtatious, if he were someone else. “Anyway, Maura has two kids now. I think I’m better off single.”

“Marriage isn’t so bad,” said Frank. “But I never married again either after Judith died.”

“I remember you talking about your wife, but I think you never told me her name before.”

“It’s been a long time,” he said. That sounded odd, as if he had forgotten Judith, when of course he could never do that.

“I’m sorry.” Cynthia reached across the table and touched Frank’s hand. He looked down at their hands and shrugged. 

“Oh, I’m all right,” he said. “Just like a bachelor for years now. Cooking for myself… well, I’m no good at that. You need a woman for that I guess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a man cooking! Women can’t spend all their time in the kitchen.” 

Frank thought he might have offended her, though she didn’t sound angry. He held his hands up in front of him. “I didn’t mean it like that. Judith was… well, anyway, I can make pancakes.”

“What else do you do these days, besides pancakes?”

“I fix things. And get ordered around by the management company. The tenants, too, but they’re mostly all right. And I read mystery novels, old ones mostly.” He thought to himself that Cynthia didn’t care about any of that, but then she asked him a question about Dashiell Hammett and he was able to name her some of his favorites.

When he turned the subject to her writing, she looked almost embarrassed. That surprised him, in a woman so outgoing and composed. She explained that she had only published one short book with a very small press, and really worked as an administrative assistant.

“Anyway, it’s poetry. Do people even like poetry?”

“I like it some,” said Frank truthfully. “What kind of poetry is it?”

“It’s mostly about being a Puerto Rican woman growing up here.” She looked down at the table and recited briefly in Spanish.

“I don’t know very much Spanish,” he confessed. “I took it in school, but that was a while ago. And I used to try to help my son with his homework. Something about the heat of the sun, and oranges, I think? And light in the street.”

She nodded. “I translated it in the book.”

“But that’s not the same, is it?”

Cynthia tilted her head slightly and looked at him through her lashes. “No, it isn’t.”

“Judith used to write poetry,” said Frank. “I don’t suppose anyone would have published it, but I liked it. I still keep her notebook at home.”

“I’d like to see her poems sometime.”

“Well, any time,” said Frank.

“We could go now,” Cynthia suggested.

He looked at her with some surprise. His offer had been sincere but he hadn’t really thought she was really interested in seeing his wife’s poems. But there didn’t seem to be any polite way to refuse. At least he kept the place clean.

“All right. I walked here though; it’s so close I didn’t bring my car.”

“I took the subway here,” she replied.

Frank paid for the drinks despite her protests that it was his birthday, and they walked across the street to the building. She walked close to him, her arm nearly brushing his.

“I suppose at my age you’re not about to worry that I really meant I wanted to show you my etchings,” he said.

Cynthia looked confused. “Etchings?”

“Oh, it’s just an old expression. A man asks a woman to his room to see his etchings but really he wants to show her something else.” That sounded even worse than he had meant it to, but she only laughed. When they got inside, he invited her to sit down, but she walked around the living room looking at his few photographs while he searched the shelves for Judith’s old notebook.

“Is this your son?”

Frank looked up. “Yes, that’s his wedding picture, with Mary.”

“He looked a lot like you.”

“Thank you.”

“You never told me anything about your daughter-in-law. Do you still keep in touch?” she asked.

“Keep—? No. They both passed away.”

“Was there an accident? Well, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I don’t mind,” he replied. The problem was that it sounded so strange. “The thing is… I know this is weird. But I don’t know. Mary was very ill, and James was taking care of her. They sent her home to die, to be honest. And then I went to their apartment one day to see how they were and no one was there. I thought Mary had passed away and James was off making the arrangements but he never came home. I never saw either of them again.”

“I don’t understand,” Cynthia said.

“I don’t either. Mary must have died, but I don’t even know where she was buried. And I don’t know where James went. It must have been horrible for him when she died and I think—well, I think he committed suicide, out in the woods somewhere maybe, and they never found the body. He’d have come back, otherwise. I just wish I’d been more help to them.”

Cynthia put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. He must have been in a lot of pain. And now I’ve upset you. “

He shook his head. “No, you haven’t.” He went back to looking for the book.

“Is it hard, taking care of this place?”

“It’s usually all right, but over the years I’ve had things happen. Really strange things. People disappear; cats disappear; those people who left the baby…”

“I heard about that. One of the other tenants told me when I moved in.”

“Yeah. I was the one who found it.”

“You did?”

“It was a tiny thing, with the umbilical cord still on.” Frank stopped himself. He wasn’t about to tell her about taking the cord, or how it sometimes seemed to be rotting. Though he didn’t notice anything tonight, and she didn’t seem to either, though it was right there in the drawer. “I found the notebook,” he said.

Cynthia took it and began to scan the pages. “This isn’t what I expected. There’s a lot of imagery here, and some real issues. Working women… did Judith’s mother really work in a cannery?”

“Yes. And Judith worked in a bookbinder in Brahams until she got pregnant with James. I didn’t think it was right, her having to work after that, though I guess we could have used the money.”

“My mother worked in a flower shop in Silent Hill, even after my brothers and I were born. But I think it’s not there anymore.”

“There’s not much there anymore,” said Frank. A silence fell, and Cynthia broke it by reading out loud.

“If love has a meaning—“

Frank held his hand up. “That one’s mine; don’t read it.”

Cynthia just grinned. “It’s not bad. You put a lot of emotion into it.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “Well, it was to please Judith.” When was the last time he’d thought about feelings? For Judith, or for James, or anyone.

They were both leaning against the bookshelves now, Cynthia once again just a bit too close to him. As he began to back away, wondering if she was going to leave now, she suddenly said, “I didn’t know you were such a romantic guy, Frank.” And then she kissed him.

He pulled away immediately. “Are you that drunk?”

“I’m not anything like drunk,” she said. 

“Then why are you acting crazy?” he asked.

“I thought we were having a nice time,” she said, still so close he could feel her breath. “Don’t you want to have a little fun?”

“What’s going on? I mean, that bar was full of men; you could have gone home with any of them.”

She grinned and touched his chest with her forefinger. “So now I go home with just anyone?” 

“I don’t know; that’s not what I meant. I just… I must be thirty years older than you, at least. If you wanted something like that why would you pick me?”

“I like men and sometimes I meet them in bars and I’m not going to act like I don’t. But maybe I think you’re a nice person, Frank. Maybe I didn’t pick you at random. Don’t you remember when you used to come fix the sink in the kitchen?”

“You two never understood how to run a garbage disposal,” he said, wondering what she was getting at.

“And I used to stand by the refrigerator and talk to you?”

He did remember that, and how awkward it had been making conversation with such a pretty young woman. Cynthia used to talk to him about old television shows, and ask him about things he remembered from when he was a kid. At the time he had wondered if she was only there to check up on his work, though he had laughed at some of her stories about her boss at work.

“Maura used to tease me that I had a little crush on you.”

“Well, that’s just silly—“

Then she kissed him again and it hit him that she wasn’t joking around. She was making a pass at him, for whatever inexplicable reason, and he could take her up on it if he wanted to. But what kind of person would that make him if he did? It was one thing to have porn magazines hidden in your bottom drawer and another to go to bed with a woman young enough to be your daughter who picked you up in a bar. Anyway, he didn’t do things like that even when he was young himself. And what was she expecting? Someone with years of exciting experience? Sex was a distant memory for Frank.

She slipped her tongue gently between his lips and he let his hands rest on her waist, feeling the smooth bare skin between her skirt and her shirt. Maybe he should be ashamed of himself, and maybe he was going to disappoint her, but he wasn’t going to protest any further. Cynthia was a gorgeous woman, and if she was offering herself to him just to be nice, then he was going to let someone be nice to him tonight.

When she kissed his neck, it gave him chills and made his heart pound. He allowed himself to stroke her hips through her skirt, and she sighed.

“Do you want to go into the bedroom?” she asked.

He nodded speechlessly. But when they were in the doorway it hit him.

“I don’t keep anything here. Condoms, I mean… I wouldn’t need to.” 

He couldn’t run out to the convenience store, could he? She’d probably just leave before he got back. But she just smiled and walked over to her purse. Withdrawing a small packet she said, “Now I wonder what you think of me for carrying them around.”

“Huh? No, I don’t think anything. I mean, people have to be careful these days,” he said awkwardly. It would be pretty hypocritical of him to question her morals right now.

When he was finally lying on his bed, watching as she removed her clothing, he told himself to relax. But when she stretched out beside him in a lacy black bra and panties, he knew he was staring at her like a fool. She turned and asked him to take her necklace off.

“It’s pretty,” he said, setting the object on the nightstand. 

“My mother brought it back for me from Silent Hill when I was little.” She looked into his eyes. “You’re a little nervous, aren’t you.”

“It’s been… never mind. I don’t remember how long it’s been.”

She guided his hands to her shoulders and then he felt her warm skin again and just closed his eyes and touched her. He could feel himself harden now, removing his worry that he wouldn’t be able to perform in the first place. When she reached for his shirt buttons he almost wanted to back out of the whole situation, because he knew what he looked like with his clothes off and he didn’t compare well to someone like her. But she just watched him undress and stroked his chest as if she found him pleasant. Then she removed the last of her clothing and it was all skin and warmth and kisses again. 

Gently, she guided him onto his back and straddled him, unrolling the condom over his erection. He gasped slightly at the touch of her hands.

“Are you ready?”

He barely had time to nod before she positioned herself and began taking him inside her. The feel of her was overwhelming, as was the sight of her as she looked down at him with that smile. When she began to rock her body he made a small whimpering sound and had to close his eyes for a moment. Cynthia bent to kiss him, nipping at his shoulder, and then sat up again. She began to thrust her hips harder, her mouth slightly open and her eyes half-closed in what Frank hoped was pleasure.

Cynthia reached for his hand and guided it between her thighs, and he stroked her until he found a spot that made her cry out softly. For a little while she stopped moving as he touched her more intensely, and then murmured that she was going to come. As she arched her back, Frank stared up through a haze of arousal at her flushed face, then grasped her hips and thrust up into her. Soon his own body found release and he let the sensation run through him, then lay there dazed and panting softly.

She carefully dislodged herself and sat beside him, and he threw the condom in the trash can at the side of the bed as discreetly as possible. He was still having a little trouble believing this, even with her still here with her hand on his bare chest.

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said, wondering that she felt she had to ask. “Um… you?”

“Sure. And happy birthday again.” She brushed her lips over his.

He turned to look at the clock. “It’s past midnight, actually.”

“I’d better go then, before the trains stop running.” She rose from the bed and began looking for her clothing.

“Wait, I’ll get dressed and drive you,” he said. “You can’t take the subway this time of night.”

“That’s very chivalrous of you. But I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head. “It’s really not safe, a woman alone down there at this hour.”

She just winked at him. “I’m not about to drag an old man out of his warm bed at this hour either.”

“Now I’m an old man…” Frank didn’t know much about the rules for one-night stands but he was fairly sure they were allowed to include breakfast. “You can sleep here if you want, and I’ll drive you back in the morning. I can make pancakes.”

To his surprise, she hesitated. “That sounds nice, actually.” She got back into the bed and even lay her head on his shoulder. Somehow the idea that he wouldn’t have to sleep alone tonight seemed almost as good as sex. He pulled the covers over both of them.

“Thank you,” Cynthia murmured, sounding slightly sleepy already.

When breakfast was over he would be back to his life of painful conversation with tenants and running out now and then for groceries. And Cynthia would be back to her own pursuits which were probably much more interesting. But he would have a memory, and that was more than some people could say. He closed his eyes, still feeling her cheek against his shoulder, and slept.


End file.
